


Stay

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 14:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thorin doesn’t want Bofur to leave, and hearing the ‘why’ changes everything.





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NordicFlamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NordicFlamingo/gifts).



> Gift for nordicflamingo, who donated to World Wide Fund for Nature and the Red Cross for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “Thorin overhears Bofur sadly confessing to Bilbo about how his feelings for Thorin will surely never be reciprocated as Bofur's got nothing to offer but himself, and surely Thorin deserves better. Que Thorin getting all emotional and sappy, and a happy ending! :) (You can include sex if you want to and think there's room for it. If so, sweet, gentle lovemaking, please!)”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His footsteps feel heavier than usual, though the expensive boots he wears are far better quality than what he trudged home in—he’s no longer left clinging to rags from the days of old, draped more in armour than cloth. Now he wears the garments of a _king_ , and he should hold his head higher for it, but knowledge weighs him down. He tries to smile when he passes a patrolling guard, but it likely comes out only as an awkward sneer. His mood’s shattered.

Dinner rings through his head, echoing and haunting. The feast was in their honour— _all_ of their honour, every last one of his company who made it through thick and thin, past wargs and goblins and dragons alike, finally to this doorstep. This should’ve been the end of it. They’ve reclaimed their mountain, their _home_ , and they were all made to live in peace inside it, except, perhaps, for their esteemed burglar. The feast was a going-away gift to him too, as he leaves tomorrow morning. That will be a bitter day, one Thorin will have to face stonily and gravely for fear of shedding tears.

But he could’ve handled it. He’s grown to love Bilbo dearly, but their friendship will withstand the distance. He always knew that Bilbo would have to go _home_ —Erebor isn’t built for him.

But it is built for Bofur, and it hurt to overhear Nori’s sad jokes over losing his best friend. Bifur was all but wilted, Bombur stoic but respectful of his choice. Nobody told Thorin. He had to pick it up from conversation and finally from Bilbo’s frank word: Bofur would go back with him. All the way to the Shire. Far out of Thorin’s life, and that still stings so sharply that his steps falter for it—he has to pause to suck in a breath lest he bring the roof down with his rage.

He steadies himself and keeps moving. He has to. He can’t say goodbye to Bofur at the gate, like he will their little friend, so he’ll do it tonight, and maybe a little more. He can’t make Bofur stay. Or actually, he _could_ : he could order it, and Bofur, so loyal to him all this time, surely would obey. But Thorin abused his power once, and he won’t do it again. So he’ll just say his peace, selfish thought it might be, and try to convince Bofur that there’s nowhere else for him but Erebor. Life is still hard here, but things will get better. Thorin will make sure of it.

He turns the corner and slows towards the end—two doors branch off from it, one firmly closed and the other slightly ajar. That’s the entrance to Bofur’s chambers, in the same wing as all his company, but tucked near the end—Bofur isn’t family, like Fíli and Kíli, or royally appointed like Dwalin and Balin, but he’s still _important_. They all are, but Bofur more so.

Thorin comes to the doorway, ready to call through the open crack, but hushed voices stop him. He immediately recognizes who must’ve just come through it—Bilbo’s voice is unmistakable. As much as Thorin’s grown fond of their burglar, he can’t help a small spike of _jealousy_. On this last night, _Thorin_ should’ve been the one there first.

Bilbo tells Bofur, obviously anxious, “Oh, I think you’re very wrong about that.”

“I appreciate that, I do,” Bofur answers, sounding just as down. “But I didn’t get this far by deluding myself.”

“I think you’re doing that right now, if I’m being perfectly honest. Imagine, I never would’ve thought to run into a dwarf with self esteem issues!” 

“I haven’t _got_ self-esteem issues, I’m just being practical—”

“Oh, are you?” Now Bilbo sounds mildly exasperated, but then his voice lowers, and he says more calmly, “You’re a great catch, Bofur. You’re plenty nice, and you’ve got a wonderful sense of humour. And that isn’t even mentioning your clever songs, or your talent—didn’t you say you used to be a toy maker? Why, that takes all kinds of skills...”

“None of which,” Bofur forlornly interrupts, “mean anything to a king.”

Thorin freezes. There’s only one king Bofur serves—only one that he could mean. Sure enough, Bofur sighs, “I’m just not worthy of him, Bilbo. And I don’t say that to be all self disparaging, as you put it. I suppose you might think of him as just one of us, but he isn’t, is the thing. He’s a _king_ , Bilbo. _My_ king. I’m never going to be worth anything like that, and to still stay here and see him every day... it’s just... I can’t do it.”

There’s a long pause, during which Thorin’s heart tries to hammer right out of his chest. He can hardly believe what he just heard, can hardly digest it, and he’s still trying when Bilbo murmurs, “Running away won’t help, you know. I’ll be glad to have your company in the Shire, but... as your dear friend, I can’t in good conscience condone it.”

“Maybe not. But I do know that I can’t stay here, seeing him every day, wanting him as much as I do, while he finds someone else to settle down with. He has the time now to court properly, and better suitors will come to court him. I’m sorry, Bilbo. But I’ve made up my mind.”

Thorin makes up his too.

He raps against the wall, knocking so loud that he can practically _hear_ Bilbo jumping in surprise. The voices instantly fall quiet, and panic sparks—but Thorin crushes it down, as he always does. Being fearful has never gotten him anywhere, and now he can’t stop internally cursing himself for keeping as quiet as he did for so long. He should’ve sucked it up and confessed how he felt before, and maybe none of this foolish Shire business would’ve cropped up at all.

The door soon cricks wider open, and Bilbo looks up at him with big, round eyes. “Oh, hello,” Bilbo chirps, clearly off guard, and for a moment, Thorin just wants to scoop him up and tell him to stay too.

But then Thorin sees Bofur over Bilbo’s shoulder, handsome and _Dwarven_ and everything Thorin’s drawn to. He asks Bilbo softly, “Would you mind if I spoke to Bofur for a moment?” His and Bilbo’s goodbyes will come at another time, and it looks like Bilbo can see that, because he nods. 

He looks back at Bofur, smiles, then decides, “I was just leaving anyway.” And he slips past Thorin as graceful as any burglar ever could. This time, as Thorin steps inside, he makes sure to close the door behind him. 

He comes as close to Bofur as he dares—he wants to take that extra step and smother Bofur in a warm embrace. But he exercises self-control and pauses there while the surprise flickers through Bofur’s eyes. Bofur asks him first, uncharacteristically stiff, “What is it?”

Thorin opens his mouth. But he’s always been better with actions than words, and his arm’s moved before he can stop it—he grabs Bofur’s hand, squeezing it through the fingerless gloves Bofur wears even indoors. Startled, Bofur glances to the touch, and Thorin tells him earnestly: “Don’t leave.” That snaps Bofur’s gaze back into place, and Thorin quickly rolls on: “I want to rebuild Erebor, to make it as magnificent as it was before Smaug, and it’ll be less so if it doesn’t have your songs and toys about. And... no, it’s more than that. I want you by my side when I do all that.” Once he’s started, he can’t stop, and the words come tumbling out. He admits: “I’ve always wanted you there, Bofur, for as long as I’ve known you. It started off as just a little crush, when I first saw you dancing up on tables with your hair in those cute braids—” Bofur’s eyes go very, very wide, mouth falling open, and Thorin barrels on: “The quest just solidified everything. With all that time we spent together, all we went through together, how could it not? I’m under _so much pressure_ , all the time, but you’re the only one I can always count on to make me smile. You’ve proven loyal and brave and everything a king could ever want.”

When he pauses for air, he realizes that Bofur’s hand is shaking. With their eyes still connected, Thorin kneels down, the way he would for no one else, and he knows Bofur will understand that. It’s a deliberate show of respect, and a display of just how much he means this—how important it is. Looking up to lock their eyes, Thorin tells Bofur, “Please. Don’t leave.”

Bofur looks like he wants to answer. He opens his mouth but closes it again, tries another, and then actually lifts his free arm up to rub his sleeve across his face. When it leaves, his eyes are watery. He shakes his head, then abruptly collapses, falling right down into Thorin’s arms. Thorin catches him with ease—he’s light, for a dwarf, and he clings to Thorin’s shoulders like he’ll never let go. With his face pressed against Thorin’s, cheek, he mutters into Thorin’s ear, “You can’t really mean all those things.”

Thorin gruffly counters, “I don’t say things I don’t mean.” And Bofur lets out a little laugh—the hearty, jubilant kind that always spreads warmth throughout Thorin’s body. Thorin pets the back of his head, pleased that, for once, the telltale hat isn’t there—it lets Thorin run his hands across Bofur’s dark hair. Even though he loves the braids, he wants to undo them, because he’s dreamt too long of running his fingers through Bofur’s hair, and clearly, he could’ve been all along. He’s the first to detangle them, and he kisses just below Bofur’s mustache on the way.

Then he kisses Bofur’s lips, meaning to just be light and quick so he can profess it all again, but Bofur surges back into him like a falling hammer. Thorin’s nearly knocked backwards, but that only fans his own flame. He kisses Bofur harder, leaning in and twisting, swiping his tongue across Bofur’s lips and thrusting in when Bofur opens in a moan. Thorin’s gotten a good taste by the time Bofur parts them, breathing heavy and turning pink. 

“I can’t believe this,” Bofur whispers, like Thorin hasn’t been obviously smitten for years. “Of course I always... I’ve loved you... we all have. But I never thought _I’d_ have a chance...” He shakes his head, letting out another boisterous laugh, and Thorin wants to strip him naked for it and feel it beat through his lungs. He finishes, “I don’t want to waste this.”

Pushing out of Thorin’s arms, Bofur climbs back up to his feet, one hand already outstretched for Thorin to take. As soon as Thorin’s up, Bofur’s tugging him towards the backroom—the bedroom. As much as that thrills him, it also confuses him, and he mumbles tentatively, “I’ve only just confessed, and I’m already to be rewarded...?”

Bofur just chuckles, “What are we, elves?” Thorin scowls at the mere mention, and Bofur elaborates, “We don’t have all the time in the world, and I want to fill my life with you as much as I can. Besides, I’ve already wanted this far too long!” And he’s more _fun_ than any elf could ever be; Thorin should’ve known he’d choose passion over propriety. Thorin’s certainly not complaining.

He follows Bofur right to the bed, and as soon as he can, he’s shoving Bofur back onto the mattress. Bofur falls easily, but he grabs at Thorin’s lapels and tugs Thorin down with him—they tumble over the sheets, trying to kick their boots off in between kisses. It’s like an explosion’s all gone off at once, leaving them frantic and messy, but Thorin would have it no other way. He doesn’t want to wait, either. 

Somehow, they get their overcoats off, gloves gone, muddy boots discarded, and Thorin’s left to run his hands up beneath Bofur’s tunic, pleased and unsurprised when he isn’t pushed away. Bofur just moans into his mouth, fingers tangling in his beard. He doesn’t have the dexterity anymore to untwist Bofur’s braids, but he does rub his chin against Bofur’s, brushing their beards together. His hands busily explore Bofur’s flesh below, squeezing Bofur’s meaty chest and eliciting new gasps and groans. When he first skims his palm over the hem of Bofur’s trousers, Bofur mutters against him, “There’s oil in the nightstand.”

Thorin doesn’t have to be told twice. He lifts off of Bofur, up on his knees, but before he can turn, Bofur’s crawled out from under him. Bofur reaches the nightstand first, wrenching open the wooden compartment and fetching a half-full bottle. A shiver runs down Thorin’s spine at the thought—where the other oil went—who Bofur was thinking of when he last took himself in hand, cock glistening with lube in the dying firelight. The candles are still lit for the day, but as much as Thorin likes the mood of darkness, he’s grateful now for all the candles—this first time, he wants to see it all. 

Bofur’s a vision as he lies back against the pillows. He uncaps the bottle, spilling a small pool into his palm, and then he’s got the bottle capped again and replaced on the nightstand. As he thrusts his hands between his legs, reaching into his baggy trousers, he breathily admits, “I used to daydream about this, you know.”

“Touching yourself?” Thorin asks, already crawling closer. He tugs at one leg of Bofur’s trousers, and when Bofur bucks into it, he dares to do more—he grabs the waistband and starts scrunching it down, revealing coarse hair and creamy thighs. Bofur bites his bottom lip as he’s exposed to the air, and Thorin takes more, more, until Bofur’s long cock has sprung free, and his hand’s visible beneath his balls. Thorin groans as he pulls the fabric the rest of the way down, tossing it aside. Then he ducks in to take a better look, already forgetting Bofur’s comment until it starts up again.

“Being yours, I mean.” Thorin looks up to meet a dazzling smile. “But I didn’t think I ever could be, so... I pictured being your royal courtesan instead.”

Growling in pure _want_ , Thorin leans over Bofur’s chest to press a kiss against his lips. Thorin swipes his tongue hungrily around Bofur’s mouth the second it’s open, and then he hisses into it, “I want you for so much more than that.” Bofur bucks up, shuddering, like that alone is enough. 

Watching alone isn’t enough. Thorin brings his hand to join Bofur’s, until Bofur starts tearing at his tunic, anyway, and then he pauses to rip it off. Bofur’s eyes instantly fall to his chest, washing eagerly over it as Thorin, shirtless, descends down on him again. Thorin rubs between Bofur’s thighs, moving in to trace the bulge where two of Bofur’s fingers are stuffed inside himself. Around another few kisses, Thorin orders, “Out.” Bofur listens. He pulls them free, and Thorin catches some of the oil they spill, fingers dancing through that until he can safely stuff two inside. Bofur cries out as soon as he does, and Thorin groans for both the reaction and the feeling. Bofur’s tight, hot, and velvet-soft—Thorin strokes him before thrusting deeper inside and gently scissoring him open. Bofur’s channel seems to stretch readily for him, though it shivers when Bofur does, and they both seem so wracked with pleasure already that they can’t stay still for long. 

Thorin carefully works Bofur wider, over to three fingers, then finally four, knowing that he’s sizeable and would _never_ want to hurt his precious partner. He fully intends for Bofur to be that now. By the time he’s finally pulling his fingers out, Bofur’s rocking up into him and whines over the loss. 

Shuffling between Bofur’s legs isn’t hard, because Bofur sidles right up into place, spreading his thighs open wide and pressing up into Thorin’s lap. It’s almost comical, the way they’ve gotten themselves into it—both of them half dressed, wearing one full outfit between them. There doesn’t seem time to take Bofur’s tunic off or deal with his own trousers, even though the preparation’s already taken some time. It’s slow but steady, and there’s no stopping now. Looming over Bofur, so _in love_ he can hardly stand it, Thorin asks, “Are you ready?”

With that same charming grin that first made Thorin’s heart flutter, Bofur answers, “I’ve been ready since the night we met.”

Thorin just nods, because otherwise he’ll say something even sappier, and he’s ruined enough. He reaches into his trousers to pull himself out, watching as Bofur’s eyes widen at it, and then he coats himself in what’s left of the oil. It’s enough that when he presses himself against Bofur’s stretched hole the first time, he just slides off. Growling as Bofur fondly chuckles, Thorin tries again, and this time he pushes in while Bofur’s mid-chortle, cutting it off into a languid groan. 

Even with just the head inside, Bofur’s ass is dizzyingly _good_. Thorin takes a moment just to processes it, to give Bofur time, even though his hips are trembling with the want to stab forward. He waits anyway. He moves forward gradually, bit by bit, filling Bofur up with one centimeter by one delicious centimeter. By the time he’s halfway inside, he’s seeing stars.

When he finishes, finally buried to the hilt, he lowers back down to Bofur’s mouth, and Bofur’s arms wrap so tightly around him that he wonders again if they’ll ever let go. Maybe the two of them will be stuck like this forever now—just one long string of _making love_ after years of pain and waiting.

Bofur clings to him as he withdraws, just enough to push back inside, not nearly so hard as he’d thought he would—as much as his lust thrums through him, _love_ does just as much. He slides back into place, savouring every last little feeling of it and the way Bofur arches to moan. Thorin presses their foreheads together, drinking it in. Their entire bodies flatten together, and Bofur groans into his ear, “ _Thorin_...”

The next thrust comes right after, then another, rolling into a steady rhythm of give and take. He ebbs into Bofur, rejoicing in the cloying heat that squeezes all around him, and then he slips away, only to pour right back into it. They kiss in between, or mutter broken forms of each other’s name, or just _hold_ one another as tightly as possible. As trim and light as Bofur is, he’s still _strong_ , and Thorin knows he can take Thorin’s weight, take the way Thorin clutches to him. Bofur clutches right back, two fists locked in Thorin’s hair. Thorin wants it to last all night.

He tries to make it. He feeds the steady pace, keeping up, holding on. Bofur’s skin seems to burn against his, Bofur’s tunic sticking to his sweat-slicked chest. At times, he can feel Bofur’s heart racing against him. And then it’s all too good to hold, and Thorin feels himself coming undone. He buries his face in Bofur’s shoulder, cutting off a feral roar mixed with a needy moan, and his cock bursts inside Bofur’s channel. He keeps thrusting right through it, pumping it in, and even as the brilliant orgasm washes through him, he reaches down to wrap his hand around Bofur’s cock. He only needs to give the warm shaft a few pumps before Bofur’s crying out and spilling over Thorin’s hand. Thorin keeps stroking him, until he’s shuddering and gasping.

Thorin’s panting for air. He hovers over Bofur, half held up on one elbow, the rest of his weight draped low over Bofur’s body. Spent and satiated and so, so _happy_ , he wants to just curl up there. But Bofur kisses his cheek and whispers, “Will you stay the night?”

Without thinking, Thorin grunts, “If you stay in Erebor.”

Bofur promises, “Oh, now you’ll never be able to get rid of me.” And that’s just what Thorin wanted.

It’s still a few minutes before he pushes himself up. Then he slips off, moving over to climb beneath the blankets, and Bofur follows suit, stretching and ambling over. The two of them are even more disheveled, sweaty and half naked and littered in pink prints from grabbing hands. Thorin’s too tired now to even bother with the candles and leaves them to wear themselves out. 

He cuddles up with Bofur beneath the sheets, murmuring, “Soon, we’ll have a large, grand, royal bed to lie in.”

“Lovely,” Bofur hums, “though I would’ve been just as happy to share a battered bedroll with you out there in the wild.”

Thorin knows it. And he loves Bofur for that. He loves Bofur for a lot of things. They share another kiss, and then they fall asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.


End file.
